Sheep

If they knew my secret they would hate me. It isn’t a matter of opinion, it’s just plain fact. I rationalised at the start I think. Probably using that same old mantra that I used as a kid when I shoplifted lipsticks from the drugstore: this is normal, everyone is doing this kind of stuff. A later favourite was: people are sheep, they only behave themselves because society tells them to - well I’m no sheep. That one was of particular interest to me during my college years; likely accounting for the majority of my illicit behaviours back then.

My first lie was a small one, something for sure other people do all the time. It was harmless, too, it was only Curt and I after all, and that guy didn’t give two shits about anything. I hadn’t even cared that he wanted to end things, why would I? He was no boyfriend to me, always out late partying or doing God knows what, with God knows who. I heard the rumours and I’m no fool. So no big deal not to be together anymore, in fact that’s what I wanted. But to end on his terms after everything he had done? There was no way I could allow it.

I had read about other women in those coffee break magazines, and whilst the general reaction was one of horror or disgust, my thoughts were usually along the lines of: fair play to her. Those other people - the disgusted, horrified ones - to me they were a bunch of mindless nobodies casting judgements on things they had no business trying to understand.

He texted me, can you believe it? After over a year, a break up text was all I got. The blaze in my cheeks had burned so strong I grabbed a cold beer from the fridge and rested it against my dimpled skin. What a prick, how dare he.

It had taken mere seconds for the thought to conjure and the decision be made; the perfect devious reflex. I told him I had been about to call him. That I needed to talk. That it was serious.

He looked scruffy and disinterested when I met him at the park, his brow furrowed with concern as I approached - I had been sure to splash my face with water and puff up my cheeks some more, in my hand I scrunched a rough piece of tissue. He took me in a loose embrace, he stank of stale smoke. I could feel his lame worry.

He asked me what was up. I told him through broken sobs. I was pregnant, it was a shock, unexpected, but I had hoped we could make a go of it until I received his text, of course. How could he do this to me? So callously insensitive.

His agonising distress was intoxicating. He held me in his arms and apologised over and over, how could he be such a dick? He would support me no matter what I chose. All the right noises, but the truth was scratched all over his stubbled face. He didn’t care for me, nor the baby, only himself.

I rode that wave awhile, taking pleasure in his discomfort, his squirms as I toyed with the idea of keeping the baby; suggesting names, scrolling through baby Pinterest boards, making plans about childcare that would never come to fruition.

It was all our secret, of course. I wanted to wait for the right time to tell our friends. I had no family; with mom dead and dad long gone - and that suited him just fine, so it was the perfect little setup.

I applauded myself for the timing of my miscarriage. Not only was it primed ahead of the twelve week scan, but it aligned ever so nicely with a peak of enthusiasm from Curt. One day he showed up at my basement apartment holding a pebble coloured romper. It was tiny. He told me he had noticed it and he couldn’t believe how small it was; he had to buy it; it was amazing that in only six months we would have one of our own. He had hugged me then - properly hugged me - and my stomach had turned, it was time to end this.

How devastated he was when I told him the news. The blood had come at night and my sheets were ruined. The cramps were horrendous. They kept me in hospital longer than usual because my symptoms were so bad - no I didn’t want him there, it was too hard, I would rather be alone.

He begged me in the end; we could make things work, he said. I was the one, he said. Through forced tears I told him, no. It was too hard for me. He would always remind me of what we had lost, our perfect baby, our perfect future. He cried, he was a mess. It was delicious.

***

James is a decent guy, all things considered. He has a great job as a litigation attorney, he has his own place and his teeth are good. We met on one of those crappy dating apps and sort of just clicked. He is into surfing, same as me. He loves nature, same as me. He has a financial plan - investing in stocks and shares, yeah that shit is important to me too. He is close with his family, same; just a shame I had to leave home for work, I miss them terribly.

It was over a lunch date that he told me about his friend, some bitch called Helen, who had suffered a miscarriage the week prior. He was cut up about it, his tanned face creased with sadness, his blue eyes glistened. I took his hand across the table and squeezed, I am so sorry, I said. He had smiled softly and it felt like time to tell him my story - it was only right he knew. His reaction was wonderful, he held me tight and soothed through my tangled hair. That night we made love for the first time, and I thought about my lie; the feeling was ecstasy.

After a while there was no choice but to up the ante. It was Helen again, Helen, Helen, Helen. All I would bloody hear out of his mouth. We would be watching TV and he would tell me Helen had recommended such and such show. Or we would be out having dinner and he would tell me something amusing Helen had told him that day. I had injured my back, so Helen agreed she would go surfing with him at the weekend. Oh whoopy-fucking-do.

I needed to take action. The cramps came hard and fast; I made an appointment and they referred me for tests. I’m sure it’s nothing, I told him after he stroked my face and told me he was worried about me. The tests were performed quickly - it was important in cases such as these. They called me with the results while he was out with her - a weekend call - urgent. The tests indicated something malignant, I needed to go back in.

No, it was something I had to do alone, I couldn’t face carrying his worry too. The scans were long and daunting, I cried during one and a voice on the intercom told me he knew it was hard but I had to keep still. I waited for the call. It came when James was at work. Cancer, fairly advanced, but there was a plan; luckily for me, there was always a plan.

James wept that night. I pulled a bottle of his favourite red from his collection and it was breathing on the oak table when he came home. He took my hands in his and fell to his knees, he cried with his head in my lap as I ran my fingers through his hair. He promised he would be there, whatever I needed, we would get through this together. He loved me; he was here for it all. He told me I was the best person he had ever met; he was sorry he had been out so much lately, but he was here now and that is where he would stay.

***

It has been six months and treatment is ongoing. I noticed in the shower I was losing hair so I asked James to shave it for me. He obliged with a smile and a squeeze then surprised me by shaving his own beautiful hair in solidarity; life is good.

I slice tomatoes for dinner, James is a mean cook and tonight to celebrate the end of my latest round of chemo, he is making me my favourite comfort food; lasagne. This is his first week back at work after some time out to support me and I find that I have actually missed him. I smile at the thought as golden light from the setting sun shines through the glorious floor to ceiling windows of his apartment, Dylan plays on the radio and I hum along.

The key turns in the lock and I wipe my hands on a towel, heading over, excited to greet him. I stop dead as he enters the hall, he is laughing and chatting with a charming vigour; he’s not alone. Behind him, a tall stork of a woman looms, she is wearing a pinstripe suit and holds a shiny briefcase. I have never seen her before.

“Hi babe,” James kisses me breezily and places his own briefcase on the floor. “This is Dr. Martinez.” He steps aside and allows me to shake the tall woman’s hand, a gathering unease sweeps my insides.

“Great to meet you,” she says, her grip is firm and professional, her voice entirely calm. I smile and give a small nod before looking back at James.

He places his hands on my shoulders and wheels me into the open kitchen, Dr Martinez follows, I hear her heels clicking against the hardwood floor.

“Babe!” His excitement is palpable, “Dr Martinez is a client of mine, she stayed by for a while today and we got to talking and - I hope you don’t mind - but we spoke about you and your treatment and it turns out that Dr Martinez is the top cervical cancer specialist in the North West - can you believe it?” His smile was broad, innocent, kind. “She is here to chat to you, I said you would be happy to talk to an expert - especially after being messed around so much - and she even said she could get you on a fast track treatment plan at her clinic! Isn’t this such great news?”

I make all the right sounds before holding my tummy and excusing myself for the bathroom. I stand here now and look at myself in the circular mirror. Outside I can hear muffled and urgent chat mixed with laughter. I stare at myself. My peach fuzz of hair, my milk pale face. The one extra lie, that final one, that’s all it was, it could have been perfect, it would have been. My perfect James in his perfect apartment. My James who loves me. I splash water on my face and lean into the sink. What is so wrong with being a sheep anyway?